


i know, you know, that i know you love me

by phae



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Banter, Deaf Clint Barton, Fireworks, Fourth of July, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7391293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fireworks and PTSD are kinda like oil and water, as in, they <i>do not mix</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know, you know, that i know you love me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icywind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icywind/gifts).



> Title is from the Plain White T's _Fireworks._

The warmth spooned up behind Clint suddenly jerks away and he’s thrown off the mattress to the floor. Flailing in the sheet wrapped around his feet, Clint tries to scramble up to his knees, but Bucky rolls off the bed and lands on top of him, pinning him to the dog hair-infested rug.

 

Bucky’s eyes are tracking every nook and cranny in the loft, and he has his SIG aimed in the direction of the window, but Clint can’t see what’s going on because he’s flat on his back and Bucky’s using his weight to keep Clint that way.

 

Licking his lips as forces his breathing back to an even pattern, Clint taps twice in the center of Bucky’s chest. Bucky glances down long enough for Clint to sign for his hearing aids, and while Bucky frowns down at him and his metal hand flexes restlessly over Clint's heart for a few moments, he lets up on Clint and scoops them off of the nightstand and passes them over.

 

Clint fumbles to get them in his ears, and as soon as he gets them flipped on and hears a bottle rocket whizzing past with a faint sizzle, the situation clears itself up pretty fast. Clint’s shoulders sag back in relief even as he’s reaching up to ease Bucky’s weapon down and drawing him in so his head is pillowed on Clint’s chest.

 

“Shit, babe. Sorry, I forgot. I’m so sorry. Nobody’s attacking us. It’s just fireworks, baby.” Bucky’s grip on his gun falls lax enough that Clint can snatch it, stash it back between the mattress and the box spring. He raises his arms up then and wraps them around Bucky’s head, over his ears, and hugs him close, pressing kisses into Bucky’s sweat-drenched hair as he murmurs, “Got my days all mixed around, forgot it was July. It’s okay. We’re okay, babe.”

 

Clint’s not wearing a shirt because he never does when he shares a bed with Buck; super soldiers run too hot for extra layers to survive long. And with no shirt separating them, it’s all too easy to feel the hot tears dripping from Bucky’s eyes to land in the little divot made by Clint’s clavicle. Clint’s heart just about shatters when his aids pick up the faint sound of sniffling. “The Fourth’s not ‘til Monday,” Bucky mutters, his voice thick and low.

 

“I know, I know.” Clint rolls them to the side and scoots down enough that he can press his forehead right up against Bucky’s, share the same air as they breathe. “But that just means it’s gonna be a weekend long affair here in ‘Murica.”

 

Bucky’s breath hitches as he loops his arms and legs around Clint in an octopus hold.

 

“Hey, why don’t we pack a bag and bunk over at the Tower this weekend?” Clint suggests, scrounging up a smile and smoothing Bucky’s hair back off his cheeks where it’s sticking in the wake of the tear tracks. “Tony keeps bragging about his revolutionary soundproofing. Let’s go put it to the test, huh?”

 

Bucky closes his eyes and scrunches them up tight. “It’s almost Stevie’s birthday.”

 

Which, okay, doesn’t answer Clint’s question, but he’s good to roll with it. “Yeah. Steve’s not real fond of the fireworks either, you know? Which sucks, 'cause, hey, everybody's raring to light up the sparklers for Cap on his birthday," Clint rambles. He keeps the hand trapped under them cupping Bucky's face and reaches up with the other to feel around blindly for his cell on the nightstand. "They set off this major display one year, looked like his shield up in the sky, right over Yankee Stadium. So that was a double whammy of aw, why?”

 

Cell in hand, he yanks it off the charger and brings it down to rest on the floor between them. It doesn't take but a few rote taps on the screen to bring up Bucky's favorite Pandora station, which plays a bunch of peppy new girl groups that aren't too bad, but it's a little heavy-handed with the T-Swift for Clint's taste. Whatever, though, Bucky seems to like the music well enough, so Clint's not about to complain.

 

Bucky puffs out a sigh when the familiar notes start to trickle out, his breath hot and muggy against Clint's lips. His eyes are still closed, and he's turned his head so that his ear is angled toward the phone speaker, trying to focus on the music and drown out the sporadic bursts and crackles coming from outside.

 

“Hey, I got it!" Struck with a sudden idea, Clint grins and rolls over on top of Bucky, laying him out on the floor and holding the phone up between their faces so he can flip through the screen to his text messages.

 

Bucky peeks open one eye and squints up at him. “What're you up to?”

 

“I figure, guy like Tony Stark, he’s gotta own a private island or two, right? And we just so happen to be friends with him." Clint types out a quick, _hey bro. need to borrow ur island for a vacay v ASAP._ "So I say we commandeer his jet, hogtie Steve to drag him along, and have ourselves a little holiday to celebrate Captain America Day far away from all the overly enthusiastic patriotic displays."

 

Bucky's hands sneak up over Clint's hips and around to squeeze his ass.

 

"Yes? I'm taking that as a yes.”

 

Clint's phone vibrates violently in his hand as Tony's reply pops up; on the one hand, a Stark-enhanced "silent" mode is great when he's going around without his aids in, but on the other, there's absolutely nothing subtle about it.

 

“Huh. Apparently it’s Pepper’s island. He’s very insistent that there’s a difference, and that I should ask her about staying there ‘cause she’s more likely to give me a yes if I ask her direct versus going through Tony. Sounds about right.”

 

With a shrug, Clint settles more comfortably on Bucky, slithering down so that he can prop his chin on Buck's sternum while he switches over to his ongoing text chat with "Salt n' Pepa."

 

Under him, Bucky snorts, but it sounds more wet than derisive. “Stark doesn’t own his own island? Seriously?”

 

“Eh, it was probably his not too long ago, but they’ve been having this 12% argument for like, years now, it’s beyond ridiculous, don’t even ask—"

 

"Wasn't planning on it."

 

Clint tilts his phone back and sticks his tongue out. Childish, yes, and Bucky probably can't even see it considering all Clint can see is the tip of Bucky's nose, but it's the thought that counts.

 

Pepper is, as ever, a scarily efficient angel, and she quickly texts Clint back not only with permission to pop over to the island for a few days, but also attaches a flight plan and all necessary documents for Clint to just waltz on over to the airstrip where the company jet is currently parked and get it wheels up within two hours.

 

"We're a-go," Clint chirps as he clambers up off of Bucky. "You just stay there and let the music soothe your soul. Maybe shoot Steve a text to get him where we want him. I'll pack us some stuff."

 

Bucky takes the phone and cradles it to his chest with a shaky smile. “You’re my favorite.”

 

“Lies!" Clint flits over to the closet with an accusatory finger pointing up at the ceiling. "All of America, hell, the whole world knows Steve’s your favorite.”

 

“You’re my favorite that I sleep with, then.”

 

“Last time I checked, I’m the only one you’re sleeping with, so I should hope so.” Clint glances back over his shoulder after he pulls some hoodies down and tosses them in the duffle always waiting in the corner of the closet. Bucky hasn't budged from the floor, not even to sit up, but his head's turned so he can watch Clint, and he's sporting that Devil-may-care grin that Clint adores maybe a little too much.

 

“Good thing, too. I'd hate to think what it’d do to your ego if you came in second again,” Bucky teases.

 

“Yeah, well, fuck you,” Clint throws back.

 

“Later," Bucky promises, and his voice has gone all deep and gravely. Clint's conditioned responses to that tone are a little bit embarrassing and Bucky knows it, but at least it's just the two of them in his apartment this time, and they're not up on a hastily constructed stage at a press conference with the full line-up of the Avengers. Bucky's an absolute asshole when he wants to be, making Clint suffer through that Q&A while trying to hide a boner. "Once we’re on that private island. We’ll have to be extra loud, though.”

 

Confused, Clint twists around and cocks his head to the side. His body's really focused on getting his blood rushing South at the moment, and his brain's not much use once the possibility of sex has entered the equation. “Huh, why?”

 

Buck's eyes are closed again, but the tension's gone from his face and it looks like he's just lounging back on the floor because he can now. “To make sure Stevie hears us, loud and clear. Punk’ll get all awkward and blush up a storm any time he lays eyes on us, especially if we wander around half-dressed." One eye pops open, and he levels Clint with a mischievous look. "You think he'd prefer the fireworks to that?”

 

Clint shakes his head and turns back to his packing. “You’ve got a weird way of telling Steve happy birthday, you know? Makes me glad I’m not your favorite.”

 

"Well, there's gotta be some perks for ya, otherwise you'd always be gunning for first."


End file.
